4. Reese
Chapter 4
Reese
“I hate when we don’t talk!” Cleo’s raspy voice floats through the phone. I can picture my best friend lounging on her trailer’s leather couch, dark waves framing her striking face.
“I’ve missed you,” I groan, sitting at my vanity at home in LA. “How’s murder-solving in the wilderness?”
“Yosemite has me paranoid. I’ve been bingeing true crime podcasts, and now I’m convinced every tree is hiding a serial killer.” I smile at her dramatics. “How was the table read?”
“Felix decided Robyn can’t say words like ‘opulent’ because it’s not realistic to the women of the fictional medieval times. Then he revised the script by giving Robyn this tragic romance backstory. When I pointed out that it undermines her motivation to help her village, he smiled and said audiences need to see her heart.”
“These old-school assholes need to stop treating their leading ladies like damsels in distress.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Remember, babe—you’re the star of the movie. Don’t let him steamroll you.”
“But he’s the director,” I say, massaging my temples. “I’m trying not to rock the boat. It’s my first action movie, and I’m his first female lead.”
“You’re not rocking the boat by speaking up for a character you’re passionate about!”
“Cleo, if I don’t nail this, no one will take me seriously as an actress, and I’ll be pushing thirty as a forgotten pretty girl with no work, no prospects, and I’ll be—”
“Well, now you’re just quoting Pride and Prejudice .”
I laugh with a snort, then wince. “Please don’t make me laugh—my abs are already killing me from training. I’m discovering muscles I didn’t even know existed.”
“Tell me more. Has your trainer given your ass BBL status yet?”
“Not yet, but Nick is…interesting. Yesterday, in the middle of shadowboxing, he told me to ‘man up.’”
Slumping deeper into my chair, I take another sip of my nutritionist’s mandatory kale juice. The afternoon sun filters through my mama’s lace curtains, a touch of New Orleans. I focus on the Post-it notes lining my vanity mirror: Be perfect. Be flawless.
I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, willing them to settle into my bones, to push out the self-doubt that creeps in with every one of Felix’s exasperated sighs.
Cleo groans. “He didn’t.”
“It’s fine, part of the new gig, I guess. The most important thing is that I’m getting stronger, even if the basic exercises are starting to feel like torture. At least we’re moving to prop weapons next week. Any advice?”
Cleo and I have come a long way since our Bright Light Network days. Back then, we were two tween girls playing sisters in The Sweet Life of Kiara and Bella , sharing scenes and sneaking snacks between takes. I was the adorable, clumsy one, while Cleo was the tough-talking rebel, already showing glimpses of the powerhouse actress she’d become.
These days, Cleo plays a complex, gritty detective on TV, and I’m still cast as the sweet, clumsy character in one role or another.
“Hold your weapon as if you’ve got your fingers wrapped around a big, vulnerable—”
“Cleo!” I screech, feeling my cheeks flush bright red.
“What?” she says innocently. “I was just going to say cock!”
My best friend’s brazen humor never fails to send me into fits of laughter. “What did I say about making me laugh?”
“Alright, Reese’s Pieces, I’ll behave,” she sighs dramatically. “But I don’t think you need to stress over the weapons. You juggled flaming batons in that talent show during season two.”
“I was fourteen.”
“And you still didn’t set anyone on fire. That’s a win.”
“You’re right. Plus, for the first act, Robyn’s supposed to be learning anyway, so my awkwardness will make it realistic.”
Hopefully.
Cleo pauses. “Did you tell anyone about your fear of water? Have you thought about using the double they offered?”
My neck tenses.
I saw the raft scene when I got the script. Robyn and her crew steal from the king’s boats, get caught, and fight off guards. I lose my sword and have to jump into the water to retrieve a new one. I’ve had nightmares about it for weeks.
I inhale a deep breath.
“No, but I have a plan,” I lie. “The casting director specifically requested an actress who can do their own stunts. I’m not going to have them bend the rules to accommodate me. Besides, real leading ladies don’t use stunt doubles.”
“Grit is great, but one scene doesn’t make or break the movie. You can’t overcome decades of fear in a month.”
“Says the queen of the perfect chokehold escape.”
“That took me three seasons to learn. In your case, following Johansson’s workout plan won’t help you get over your fear of water.”
“Maybe it will. Lawrence would’ve done the stunt herself. Any other serious actress would have committed to the role fully. I’m not going to be the exception.”
“Does committing to the role fully include the celibacy part?” Cleo teases.
“It’s for inner warrior focus! Ancient samurai did it!”
“ Suuure . Speaking of focus,” Cleo sings, “I read there’s a certain someone on set who could make things interesting.”
“Dante Hastings?” I scoff.
“Wow, you sure did say his name fast.”
“No,” I protest. “You brought him up.”
“I could’ve been talking about any cast member. But please, continue.”
I scowl. I should drop the conversation right here, but I need to vent about this. “He was so unprofessional. Showed up late, didn’t know his lines, and spent the entire table read trying to chat me up.”
“Scandalous!” Cleo gasps dramatically. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening,” I fib again.
It’s completely unfair how he towered over everyone with that insufferably relaxed attitude, like he owned the room. And that stupid chipped black nail polish should look sloppy. It should be a red flag. And yet, it isn’t.
But I refuse to be affected. I absolutely refuse.
“Yet here you are thinking about it,” Cleo continues.
“It’s only because he sat next to me,” I explain. “I did my research on him. The Olympian. The Sheriff. The Alleged Master Swordsman.”
The way he placed that half-bitten, shiny red apple next to me. Terrible manners of me. Should’ve offered to share. I sat there, staring at it like he was the wicked witch in Snow White, tempting me with poison fruit.
And honestly, in a near lapse of self-control, I thought about taking a bite.
“Master swordsman, huh?”
“Yes, and now he’s somehow part of the stunt consultation team. Which doesn’t make sense considering his fencing involves those tiny toothpicks. Those aren’t exactly real swords.”
“Since when do you know anything about fencing?”
“I don’t,” I admit. “Okay, I watched one video.”
And it was…hot. Fitted white uniforms. The sweat after the masks are pulled off. The groans. The speed.
Stop thinking about it!
Cleo groans. “Girl, you can just admit that he caught your eye. Everyone watched him and his teammates at the Olympics four years ago. And listen, I never had a hand kink before, but those fencer’s hands—”
“Oh my heavens, don’t even remind me. At the table read, he wore these silver rings that kept catching the light and distracting me.”
Knowing my luck, he’ll park himself next to me tomorrow too. I need to arrive early and sit between two people, create a barricade.
“Rings, you say? Takes a certain kind of man to pull that off.”
“I just don’t understand how he got the role of the sheriff,” I continue. “He’s the only one who’s not in the industry out of the entire cast.”
“His dad owns Viggle, honey. You know how it goes.”
Another nepo baby gets a part in a film. But this isn’t a minor role. “The sheriff is supposed to appear villainous and antagonistic, not be portrayed by someone with a reputation and an eight-pack.”
I might need to write a strongly worded letter to casting.
“Did he take off his shirt so you could count all eight?”
“Not the point,” I sigh. “Can’t you see how this is a disaster waiting to happen? I mean, he punched someone at one of his matches. He obviously has a temper and no interest in obeying the rules.”
But as I list his faults, my traitorous brain keeps throwing out unhelpful observations. Like how his tattoos on all that muscle basically suck the oxygen out of the room. He’s like some unfairly attractive vacuum cleaner.
I hate it. I hate him!
“You seem to know an awful lot about someone you claim not to care about. Isn’t this how all your movies start?”
“I pay attention to everyone I work with,” I say primly, ignoring how my cheeks heat up.
“Don’t resist too much, or you’ll star in your very own romantic comedy.”
“There will be no romance.” The last time I mixed work and romance, it exploded in my face.
“I never said anything about getting romantic. It could be erotica. Late nights sneaking into each other’s cabins—”
“Hush,” I say too sharply. “Remember Ricky?”
Cleo’s tone softens. “That was different. You were just a kid.”
My fingers curl into fists. Ricky Tribbiani and I were costars in a teen summer blockbuster. He was twenty-three, and I was seventeen. My first and only real Hollywood relationship.
When the movie blew up and I got nominated for a Teen Choice Award, I thought it would be my moment to shine. Instead, it became a nightmare I’ll never forget.
The night I won my award, he drunkenly climbed onto the stage during my acceptance speech for Choice Summer Movie Actress and kissed me without consent. Instead of focusing on my achievement, the media turned it into a spectacle about him. My voice was silenced while his actions dominated the narrative.
“A man who’d prey on a teenager, then try to capitalize off her growing career? That’s on him, not you.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to welcome another man into my life and risk having him define my career.” I want Reese Sinclair to be known for her abilities. No matter how many awards I’ve won, without an Oscar I’ll always be a popcorn actress, loved by audiences but not edgy enough for critics. “But thank you for looking out for me, Cleo.”
“You’re welcome, sugar. Now, back to this totally-not-distracting stunt coordinator who we aren’t going to invite into your life but can still admire from afar…”
I groan. “Can we not?”
“Have you seen those yacht photos from this summer? Because, girl—”
“I am NOT looking at salacious photos of my colleague! That would be completely unprofessional and—”
“Sending them now!”
“Don’t bother, I won’t look—”
“Too late.”
“I’m hanging up now,” I announce.
“Actually, before you let me go, I probably won’t have service for a few weeks, but if you need me, send a carrier pigeon or something. Love you!”
“Love you,” I say.
After the call ends, the unread message blinks temptingly. One peek wouldn’t hurt.
No .
I do not need to spend time looking at cliché bad boys on yachts. But as my thumb hovers over the delete button, another photo loads and—oh.
Oh.
I swallow hard. Well, there’s nothing cliché about this.
Is that a thigh tattoo?
I pinch the screen, bringing it closer, my pulse quickening.
Dante lounges on the yacht deck, sun-drenched and effortless. His linen shorts ride up enough to reveal sharp lines of black ink against his thigh. He’s all lazy sprawl and long limbs. Over six feet of infuriating perfection. Wind ruffles the dark curls that tease the nape of his neck. A half-unbuttoned shirt frames abs that look painted on. I try to count how many abs there are but can’t make them out in the blurry photo. The skin on the backs of my arms pebbles.
My phone pings, and I swipe away from the photos so fast I drop the device.
Professional, Reese.
Be professional!